Here Be Monsters III: Womb of Lilith
by Dzeytoun
Summary: Albus Dumbledore knows that the monster within is called love. But in the summer after Harry's fifth year, it is the monsters without that threaten to sweep away all that is beautiful.
1. To Be Headmaster

Author-Dzeytoun

Category-Angst/Drama

Rating-PG13

Disclaimer-Main characters and settings owned by J.K. Rowling

A/N: This narrative continues the story begun in Here be Monsters I: Wizard's Lament and Here be Monsters II: Psalm of the Wolf. You will be lost if you do not read those stories first.

Please join my Yahoo group. The URL is listed on my author page.

HERE BE MONSTERS III: THE WOMB OF LILITH

Chapter One: To be Headmaster

Sunday, 7 July, 1996

11 35 GMT

The smell of ozone calls me to consciousness. I stretch slowly, my nose twitching first, then my arms, then my legs. All of my limbs (well, except my nose) feel weighted down, as if with heavy chains. I open my eyes and stretch slowly, ignoring the fierce burning pains that shoot through my limbs and joints.

**Welcome back, Albus, I was beginning to worry about you.**

Thank you, Tom. That's uncommonly decent of you, I must say.

**Decent, pfahh! If anything happened to you, where would that leave me?**

Sigh. Spoken like the true Heir of Slytherin.

I sit up carefully. The room they have given me here at St. Mungo's used to be a clerk's chamber. The desk is pushed up against one wall, scarcely leaving room for the cot on which I am sitting. My right elbow strikes the chair painfully as my feet hit the floor.

**It's your own fault, Albus. You are the one who insisted they use the patient rooms for "really injured" people.**

That's true, and I don't wish to repent against the decision. As far as I'm concerned, MRD (Magical Reserve Depletion) is not a "real" injury, but the natural aftereffect of a battle such as the one we fought yesterday in Diagon Alley.

**Suit yourself, Albus. Just don't fall over and break your nose when you try to get up.**

I reach over and grab the oak walking stick resting against the wall. Using it for leverage, I haul myself erect and stump to the door doing a remarkably good impression of a three-legged Alistor Moody. High pitched voices are raised in argument out in the small reception area beyond the door (this used to be part of the hospital's admissions office, back when the magical population was larger). I open the door and lurch out into the room.

The first thing I notice are a pair of house elves barricaded behind an unused desk, their large green eyes level with the top of their improvised shield. The second thing is a line of house elves in Hogwarts livery, each bearing a covered dish. The third thing is a familiar figure stalking towards me, feather duster raised like a war flag.

"Master Albus!" Iris sounds positively scandalized, "Why are you being out of bed!"

"I just felt like a stroll, Iris," I respond weakly.

"Getting back in, right now!" Iris yelps, pointing emphatically with her duster. Before I can respond she has grabbed my hand and is leading me back into my "room." Truth to tell, I _am_ more tired than I realized, and I sit down on the bed with unfeigned relief.

"We is bringing you a good meal, Master Albus," Iris explains, much calmer now. She snaps her fingers imperiously. Three of the elves hustle to drag the desk away from the wall and cover it with a white tablecloth. They then spread the dishes on the makeshift dinner table and produce pillows that they plop into the clerk's chair. At a signal from Iris, I carefully pull myself up again and sink into the chair. The good elf spreads a napkin on my lap and whisks away the covers from the dishes, revealing a meal of roast beef, baked vegetables, freshly made bread, cheese, and a selection of delicious fruit pies. There is even a large dish of lemon drops. With a quick flurry of thanks to the waiting elves, I proceed to polish off everything. MRD certainly makes one ravenous.

After a few minutes I am left with a comfortably expanded stomach, a crumb-littered tabletop, and a nice glass of the chilled lemonade Iris has provided. "Thank you, Iris. That was excellent."

"Iris is telling the kitchen elves, Master Albus."

"Please do." I sip the lemonade and allow myself a sigh of pleasure. "Now, what has been going on at Hogwarts while I've been away?"

"Has Master Albus not gotten the owls from Professor Flittywick and smelly Snape?"

"Yes, Iris," I say sternly, "now please answer the question."

Iris' ears droop sharply, but she looks me in the eye. "The place is being covered up in owls, Master Albus. Is getting nasty, if you are knowing what I mean."

"I think I do," I say dryly. "What else?"

"Iris is understanding that there is madness everywhere, Master Albus," she says. "Every time I is turning on the wireless, there is being something else."

I rub the bridge of my nose to hide my fatigue. I am not surprised by what she said but…

**You had hoped she would not say it.**

That's true.

"Iris is bringing Master Albus more clothes!" She snaps her fingers again, and a couple of the elves appear at the door bearing boxes. They quickly unwrap them and place the collection of shirts, pants, underclothes, socks, and robes on the hangers in the room's small closet. I watch with dismay as they carefully unfold the robes.

"Iris, why…"

"You is being in the hospital, Master Albus. People being in the hospital are wearing white."

"Iris, I'm not in the hospital."

"Master Albus is fooling me," she says, looking around.

**Got you there, Albus.**

"We are also bringing something to help Master Albus walk." Another snap of her fingers and four young elves enter, bearing a long shaft of mahogany carved at one end into the form of a phoenix rising from flames.

"Iris, I don't think…"

"Iris DOES think, Master Albus. Besides, you are never using pretty stick!"

I am never using pretty stick because I think pretty stick is silly. But I have no desire to incur Iris' wrath by saying THAT. Instead I smile at her as sincerely as I can, which is very sincerely. "Thank you very much, Iris."

"Master Albus is very welcome. Now, everyone is leaving," she makes shooing motions with her hands. "Iris will help Master Albus change."

**Don't even complain, Albus.**

I don't intend to. The sad fact is that I need her help.

Several minutes later I am standing in front of a mirror in the outer office, ignoring its oohs and aahs. I am clad in a long, depressingly plain white robe, holding the mahogany staff in one hand.

**Very Gandalf-esque, Albus. Professor Tolkien would be pleased.**

Tom, do shut up.

Iris makes a throat clearing noise behind me. I turn to find her holding a thick sheaf of papers, looking very annoyed. "Professor Flittywick was saying Master Albus might want to be seeing these."

"And what are they?"

"They are being OWLsies."

"Oh, the current OWL scores. Yes, I would like to see them."

**Can't resist opening one batch of trouble right after another, can you, Albus?**

Trouble never goes away if you ignore it, Tom. Besides, as tired as I am now it will probably cushion the blows.

Iris hands over the papers with a sniff. "Professor Flittywick said to remember that the OWLsies still have to be checked by nasty Ministry people. These are being the non-official scores."

"Very well, Iris, thank you." I take the papers and limp back to the table. I have to admit, the staff is very helpful when it comes to walking.

Putting the papers down on the desk I look at the cover note. It is from the Ministry testing office, saying, as Iris has relayed, that these are unofficial scores and have not been double-checked. Official scores are expected in two weeks. Somehow I expect they will be running late.

Another note under the first explains that due to the "interruption" of the Astronomy practical, the grades have been adjusted upwards by a generous factor. The Ministry is considering offering a retest to any student who requests it. I nod to myself. The testing office is a rarity in the Ministry, an efficient operation run with fairness and good will.

I flick past the statistical summaries, pausing only to note the unusually high number of Outstanding scores on the DADA exam. Harry's work, no doubt. What is it about that young man that makes me able to be so very proud of him and so very irritated with him in the same instant?

**You know very well what it is, Albus. Don't lie to yourself.**

I ignore that. I just don't have the energy to get into an inner debate on that subject.

I turn quickly to the Gs and find Hermione Granger's scores. All Outstandings of course except… one lone E mars the march of circles down the page. Astronomy. Well, I know one petition for a retest that will wing its way to the Ministry without even needing an owl! I smile fondly and turn to the Ps.

Harry's OWL scores look quite good. He received seven overall – no, eight counting the automatic OWL in Muggle Studies the Ministry awards to any muggle-reared student (and don't the pureblood families howl at that policy). There are Outstandings in DADA (it nearly goes without saying) and Care of Magical Creatures. There are Es in Herbology, Charms, and Transfiguration (Minerva will be exceedingly pleased with that). I peruse the Ds in Divination and History of Magic with no surprise, and see he got an A in Astronomy (probably due to the curve) and…Potions.

I sometimes wish I was the type of person who could take out his frustration by loud and colorful cursing. Not having such an outlet, however, I steeple my fingers and let out a long, whistling breath.

**Don't worry, Albus. You're in a hospital. Surely they have something for heartburn around here somewhere!**

Heartburn, yes. Impending conflagration of the esophagus, no.

"Is Master Albus being okay?" Iris pats my arm worriedly.

"I'm afraid not, Iris."

"What is being the problem?"

I suppose strictly speaking I should not discuss school matters with Iris, but Minerva isn't available and my treasured elf is the very soul of discretion when it comes to my secrets. "It looks like I have a very difficult decision to make, Iris. No matter which way I go, somebody is going to be very unhappy."

"What is being new?" Iris shrugs. "This is what Master Albus does every day."

"I know. But in this case it has to do with Harry and Potions."

"Is saying no more." Iris shakes her head. "Master Albus will let Iris guess – good Harry Potter is not getting O on his Owlsie."

"How do you know about that?"

"Is being talk of the castle for a while now. Some of the kitchen elves are taking bets on how Master Albus will get out of this."

"I don't suppose they have any good ideas?"

"Iris is afraid not, Master Albus. Although she thought the one about Master Albus turning himself into a bird and flying south for the winter was worth trying."

**You know…**

Shut up, Tom.

Political and social reality being what it is I am willing to overlook a great deal of Severus' behavior. I draw the line, however, at his unfairness arbitrarily interfering with students' career options. Although Harry will never be a master potion maker, I am reasonably convinced that, under another teacher, his OWL score would have been a notch higher. And most teachers would find an E to be perfectly acceptable for entrance into a NEWT level class. But Severus is not most teachers.

Of course, there are options. I have been known to "persuade" Severus to make exceptions in the past – very quietly of course. And independent study is always a viable, if difficult, way of preparing for a NEWT. In most cases there would be ways around this situation. Unfortunately, Harry is not most cases. Severus is likely to protest any opportunity extended to Harry in the strongest possible language. And Harry's A does not give me the leverage an E would have provided. Then again, what can you expect when the boy has Tom Riddle rooting around in his head?

**You have me in your head…**

Not now, Tom!

"What is good Harry Potter getting, Master Albus?" Iris asks.

"An A."

"That is being bad." She scratches her head. "Master Albus is either having Harry Potter all upset or smelly Snape all mad."

"Professor Snape, Iris."

"That is what Iris is saying, smelly Professor Snape."

Maybe there is a way out. If one of the Slytherins needs an exception… I quickly flip to the relevant pages. Crabbe, Goyle, and Bulstrode did dismally, as expected. Zabini got an Outstanding, and Nott and Parkinson are unlikely to continue Potions. That leaves… I flip to the Ms. A moment later I slap the papers down, defeated. Draco Malfoy got an Outstanding.

"What is Master Albus doing?"

I quickly explain my reasoning to Iris. She nods sympathetically.

"I repeat, any ideas, Iris?"

She makes a palms-up gesture. "Is sucking to be you, Master Albus."

"Pardon."

"Is Muggle expression Iris is just hearing about. Is seeming to fit."

**You know…**

SHUT UP, TOM!!!

"Iris is being very sorry to make things worse, but…"

"Just say it, Iris. The only thing that could make THIS worse right now is if Severus were in the building right now to see me."

"Well, Master Albus…"

I look at her slowly. Her face is very sad. I close my eyes and rub the bridge of my nose.

"Is sucking to be you, Master Albus."

"That's true, Iris. That's true."

Snape breezes in a few moments later like a gigantic crow come to pick at the dead. He stands before me as I remain seated at the table, his look of disapproval seeming oddly dimmed, as if he is wearing it more as an afterthought than anything else. That tells me Severus is extremely excited. I motion for him to sit.

"I trust you are recovering quickly, Headmaster?"

"Yes, Severus, I am mending quite nicely." I give him an approving and benevolent smile. Any tendencies toward civility and empathy that Severus evinces are to be carefully tended and rewarded.

Unfortunately, he spoils the moment, as he always does. "Headmaster, I trust that you now see my point about Potter."

"Mister Potter, Severus."

**The man really is like a pox victim picking at his sores. Doesn't he know that just makes the scars worse?**

Sometimes I think that's exactly what Severus wants. He wishes to parade his emotional wounds, grinding our faces, mine in particular, into the pain he carries with him like a security blanket. In that way he gains some measure of revenge for my perceived sins against him.

**Are you saying you don't deserve it, Albus?**

No, I am not saying that, Tom. I would never say that.

"Whatever you call him," Severus spits. "Surely you agree that he has created a disaster here!"

"Severus," I say firmly but quietly, "you know very well that Death Eaters are responsible for this tragedy, not Harry."

"I understand that Potter appeared in the middle of the battle. He might have ruined everything!"

"It is true that the appearance of Harry and his friends was unexpected." Although for the life of me I could not tell you know why it wasn't expected. Merlin knows we've had plenty of precedent. "But their intervention proved most beneficial."

"He almost got Lupin killed! Not to mention Weasley!" Snape's face is white with outrage.

"Professor Lupin and Mister Weasley made their own decisions in this matter, Severus. No one forced them to accompany Harry."

"You are determined to defend him, aren't you?" Severus reminds me very much of

Harry as he was in my office right after the battle at the Ministry. "What will it take to make you see that the boy is a menace?"

"A menace, Severus? Brave, yes. Rash, yes. High-tempered, definitely. But I do fail to see how Harry is a menace. He strikes me, mostly, as a very ordinary teenager."

**You are lying, Albus.**

Yes, Tom. But my own opinions of Harry are too complicated to share with Severus Snape. Particularly because I really don't understand them myself.

And then Severus does something that surprises me – stuns me in fact. He leans forward and begins to speak in a voice that is not spitting or dripping with sarcasm. Instead it is cold, cold and icy with something I can't initially identify.

"Ordinary, Headmaster? Yes, you would like it very much to be that way. You have allowed the boy to live in a fool's paradise for years. You have coddled him and petted him until he is totally unfit for the role he has to play."

**OUCH!!**

I bow my head for a moment. Severus has, uncharacteristically, made an insightful move directly to the heart of the matter. And it hurts. Oh, how it hurts. Nevertheless, he is not entirely right.

"I admit I have made many serious mistakes and miscalculations with regard to Harry, Severus. But if you were to ask him, I doubt he would think he had been coddled." My voice is deliberately low to hide the huskiness that creeps into it.

"That is because he has never been allowed to know the full situation," Severus shoots back. "Nor have you ever allowed the consequences of his actions to fall on his shoulders as they ought!"

"Consequences, Severus? As I recall he has faced Voldemort three times, been hunted by dementors, and slain a basilisk. Hardly a life without consequences."

"You are playing games with terms!" Snape barks. "You know very well what I mean. You have allowed him to be irresponsible. You have encouraged him to be reckless and rash. And now he is going to get us all killed!"

**That is the note in Severus' voice! Goodness, the great bat is practically aflutter with fright!**

Tom is right. The undertone in Snape's voice is fear.

I bow my head for a moment. Deliberately, I allow that moment to stretch. Severus stirs uncomfortably in his chair across from me, but I do not look up. The moment stretches on longer. I can feel the anger and doubt radiating from the other side of the table. Finally I look up, making sure to wear one of my most serious expressions.

"What would you have had me do, Severus? What would you have me do now?"

"I have told you many times!" Snape's eyes flash with wrath. "Potter should have been prepared for his destiny long before now. At least beginning his first day at Hogwarts he should have been trained to properly accept and serve his purpose." He swallows, hard. "As for now, put him on a leash and keep him there until he learns how to obey."

I hold Severus' gaze with my own. He stares back, defiantly. Not breaking eye contact, I say slowly, "Severus, do you wish to be Headmaster?"

His eyes widen. "What?"

"Not immediately, of course," I allow myself to give him a small smile, "someday."

"Well, I…" Snape sputters, obviously off guard.

**Oh, good one, Albus! Nothing like a direct blow to the ambition to get a Slytherin's attention.**

"You could be, you know," I say softly. "I cannot hold the chair forever, and Minerva is much older than you. You could succeed me, or succeed her, more likely. You have the intelligence, and the power, and the drive."

"I sense a 'however' coming on, Headmaster," Severus comments dryly.

"However," I say with a smile, "your education is not yet complete."

"My education?"

"Yes, Severus. The road to the Headmaster's office is a long one. At least if you wish to be a worthy holder of the office, unlike some."

**That chamber pot of a predecessor of yours, for example.**

"And I suppose I have far to go on the road?" Severus sneers.

"Not so far as you might think," I now allow myself to give him a comforting smile. "But still, there are some lessons for you to learn. For instance, life is not a potion."

"I am well aware of that, Headmaster." His sneer broadens in a way only he can manage. Sometimes I'm not quite sure if Severus is a man wearing a sneer or a sneer wearing a man.

"I do not believe you are, Professor Snape," I say mildly.

Severus just sneers even more broadly. I swear he's going to break his jaws that way, one of these days.

**It's a major miracle someone else hasn't broken them already.**

True. Unfortunately, Harry may attempt it, yet.

"Life, unlike a potion, has no exact formula. There are no strict rules for mixing various elements, no equations to determine how much energy to put into this situation or that, no charts to determine how long to let a problem boil before taking it off the fire. You are most comfortable when you have rules to guide you, Professor Snape. In that, you and Hermione Granger are much alike."

**Oh, that's a good one, Albus. You'll have to write that one down tonight!**

"I'm flattered," Severus snarls.

"You should be. But what I am getting at, Severus, is that although you are possessed of a sharp, subtle intelligence, you have no inclination toward complex problems."

Snape sits rigidly upright in his chair, his nostrils flaring like a dragon's just before it belches flames. "I am well acquainted with hard decisions, Headmaster."

"Hard decisions, yes, Severus. But not complicated ones. There is a difference."

"I am sure you are about to tell me," he remarks sourly.

**Petulance is SO unattractive in a man pushing forty.**

"If you had to sacrifice a colleague to bring about the defeat of Voldemort, could you do it, Severus?"

He meets my eyes again. "Yes, Professor Dumbledore, I could."

"I knew you had that strength within you, Severus. Now, if you had to risk Voldemort achieving victory to save a friend, could you do it?"

His eyes narrow until only tiny glittering arcs of his pupils peer through the lids. "That makes no sense, Professor."

"Perhaps not. But it is important."

"I do not see how."

"I know." I sigh and my look of grief is not feigned. "You see, Severus, to be Headmaster, a proper Headmaster, you have to know that there come times when all rules fail you. Sometimes, in fact, some of your most basic rules have to be stood on their heads. The one must be sacrificed for the many? That is hard, but simple. What is complicated, but nevertheless true, is that sometimes the many must risk themselves for the one."

"Particularly when that one is Potter?" Snape almost barks.

**Careful, Albus. You are on very thin ice**.

"I did not say that, Severus. I just state what is true."

"What you speak of is idiocy." His voice is cold and flat.

"Perhaps. But it is also to be human."

"A weak human. One that offers the Dark Lord weapons at every turn."

"True." I incline my head at his point. "I have learned that, to my sorrow. True to the last part of your statement, not the first. You see, if one ever becomes a calculating machine, a thing of rules and ratios, risks and odds, one ceases to be what is most important – human."

"Is it so important if we defeat the Dark Lord?" Severus leans forward, his eyes blazing.

"If we cease to be human, it will not matter if Voldemort wins or not, Severus. Because their will be nothing left to defend."

**Oh, that's very neat, Albus! Do remember to include that last part in your memoirs. It has such a nice ring to it.**

Severus obviously does not believe it has a pleasing tone. He looks, in fact, like he just swallowed one of his fouler potions. "You are saying I am not human?"

"No, Severus. You most definitely are human. But I don't think you appreciate the wonder of that state."

He holds my eyes for a long, silent second. "The Dark Lord has summoned us. He is preparing his bid to seize Azkaban."

"I cannot say I am surprised, Severus," I answer wearily.

"Strategically, it is an excellent time for him to strike," Severus agrees. "His forces are spread terribly thin, but ours are spread thinner."

"Yes."

"I must go to be with him. He expects it."

"If that is your decision, Severus." I smile sadly. "You must do as your heart bids."

"My heart bids me nothing," he snaps. "And there is no decision at all."

**He hasn't heard a word you just said, Albus.**

I know, Tom. I know.

"And I will not give Potter an exception," Severus continues.

I sigh. I am trying to make a point about life, and he is going on about his potions roster!

**Very Slytherin of him though. You can hardly force the issue after what he just said.**

No, I can't

"I will not ask you for one, Severus."

"Very well." He stands, seeming to hold the world in contempt, like the character from Milton.

**It's Dante, Albus.**

So it is. Thank you, Tom.

"I will be in contact, Headmaster!" He nods, sneers, and is gone.

I slump back in my chair, feeling utterly drained. Severus does that to me on the best of days, and now – well, I feel lucky I'm not in a coma.

A soft throat clearing comes from my right. I look up to see Iris holding a scroll and looking uncharacteristically nervous.

"Yes, Iris? I thought you had gone."

"Iris is sending other elves back, Master Albus. But Iris has something else to tell you."

I brace myself physically. It's a silly gesture, but it helps. "Go on."

"This is from Kreacher," she holds out the scroll.

I take it from her and place it on the table. I just don't have the strength right to deal with this right now. "Do you know what it says?"

"Yes." She looks down and fidgets. "It is being a petition to Harry Potter. Kreacher asks his new master to behead him. Is being family tradition."

**It sucks being you, Albus.**

So it does.

"Do you have any advice, Iris?" I ask softly.

She looks up, and I am marvelously relieved to see the old sparkle in her eyes. "Now that you are asking, Master Albus, Iris is thinking of something. But she is needing to talk with Dobby, first."

Dobby? I wonder why. Oh, well.

"Do it, Iris." I hand her back the scroll. "Let me know what you two come up with."

"Iris will do. Master Albus will be resting?" she asks with her old imperious tone.

"Master Albus will be resting," I say.

She gives me a warning glare and disappears.

**Now what could those two be cooking up?**

I don't know, Tom. And I don't want to know, right now.

Grabbing my staff, I haul myself stiffly to my feet. I promised to rest, and I will.

But first I must make my rounds of the injured.


	2. Wizard's Rounds

Author-Dzeytoun

Category-Angst/Drama

Rating-PG13

Disclaimer-Main characters and setting owned by J.K. Rowling

HERE BE MONSTERS III: WOMB OF LILITH

Chapter Two: Wizard's Rounds

Tuesday, 7 July, 1996

_13 22 GMT_

I decide to begin my visits in the surgical ward. It is the closest and also the least crowded, wizards not having as much need for surgery as Muggles. Hopefully by the time I am finished, many of the visitors will have left the hospital for the day and I can proceed in peace.

**Keep telling yourself that, Albus. You need McGonagall with you to inspire a little Gryffindor courage.**

All right, Tom. I want to start with the surgical ward because I'm not up to looking in on Remus and Harry just yet.

**That's better. The truth shall set you free. Muggles say that, don't they?**

They do. I don't feel any freer, however.

**You aren't a Muggle.**

There's something wrong with that logic, but I don't have the energy to puzzle it out right now.

I find Ron Weasley's room without any trouble. To my surprise Ginny is the only visitor at the moment. I had thought the room would be thronged with Weasleys.

"Professor!" she cries, bounding out of her chair. She comes over and throws her arms around me. A little off balance from the unexpected show of affection, I loop my arm over her shoulders and pat her back.

"Hello, Ginevra," I say softly, "how is he doing?"

She shrugs and looks toward the bed, her expression somber. "Okay, I guess. But he can't seem to rest comfortably."

I follow her gaze to where a very pallid Ron, dressed in faded blue pajamas, twitches restlessly under a standard hospital blanket. His head rolls slowly from one side to the other, although his eyes stay closed.

"The healers are worried, but they say everything should be all right," Ginny explains breathlessly. "They have to keep him asleep so the healing spells can have a chance to take hold fully. But they're afraid to put him into _too_ deep of a sleep, because that would interfere with the spells. It's all very complicated."

"Healing magic is a very complex field, my child."

"I wish I knew more. Why doesn't Hogwarts have classes on Healing Magic?" Ginny looks up at me as she speaks. I see a light of real interest in her eyes, although mostly she seems to be talking just for the joy of human interaction.

"We have offered electives in the past," I say, "for sixth and seventh years. During the last war they were very popular."

**Yes. The Ravenclaws found it fascinating, the kind hearts of the Hufflepuffs were moved, the Gryffindors wanted to help their comrades, and the Slytherins desired to know how to keep their own skins intact.**

Interest is interest, Tom. Not everyone has your noble disposition.

**Very funny, Albus. Very funny.**

I shrug my shoulders in response to Ginny's question. "Enrollment in the subject fell off sharply after the war, then Madam Pomfrey's assistant moved on and we didn't have the funds to replace her. Madam Pomfrey had to quit offering the classes and concentrate on her healing duties."

"Oh, that's a shame." Ginny seems rather sad about it.

"Well, as we are in a wartime situation again, perhaps Madam Pomfrey would deign to offer Healing classes once more, at least on a trial basis."

"That would be wonderful!" Ginny smiles, then her face suddenly falls. "For sixth and seventh years?"

"Yes." I chuckle as the dismay on her features grows comically pronounced. "But I think she would be open to a few especially interested fifth years taking the course."

Ginny smiles radiantly.

"Now," I say, "where is the rest of your family? Did they leave you all alone?"

"Oh, no," she explains quickly, "Hermione is with me. She just went to the bathroom and for a quick breath of fresh air."

"That's good." I should have known Miss Granger would be prowling the premises.

"We made Mum go lay down. She was about to fall over, you know from the stress."

"I hope she is able to get to sleep," I say.

"Well," Ginny looks just a tiny bit guilty, "I think one of the Healers put a Sleeping Draught in her tea. Mum can be just a little demanding when she gets worried."

**A little demanding?**** That's like calling Grindelwald a little cranky.**

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. Instead, I give Ginny my "kindly concerned grandfather" look. "I'm sure the rest will do her good, my child."

"I hope so. I think they tried to slip Bill one, too, but he wouldn't drink the tea. Finally he started smoking and they had an excuse to send him downstairs. Dad went with him."

"Smoking?" Wizards don't usually give off smoke unless they take a Pepper-Up Potion.

"Muggle cigarettes. It's a filthy habit, but he said all the Curse Breakers in Egypt use them for stress."

"Oh. Do they have any idea how much longer Ron will have to be sedated?"

"They aren't sure. He lost several inches of his intestine, but it could have been worse. One of the surgeons said he was afraid he would have to do a closs-dummy."

"A what?"

"A closs-dummy. It's a Muggle thing they do when your intestines are too short to, er, reach. It sounds absolutely _horrid!_ How do the Muggles live with things like that?" She shudders.

"Very well, from what I can see," I say gently. "I am glad they didn't have to do a colostomy, though."

"You can say that again!"

"I would rather not," I reply, chucking her under the chin and gaining a smile.

With a one-armed hug of comfort, I make my farewell and head for the floor below. Exiting the stairwell, I stride quickly down the long corridor leading from one side of the hospital to the other. I know I am approaching my destination when I hear a steady voice droning on –

"—specific performance shall always be allowed in cases of real property, save in instances of entailment as specified in Testament or in Finding. Specific performance may still be allowed in cases of Entail in Finding provided that – oh, hello Professor Dumbledore!" Hermes Reed puts down the large book he was reading from and rises to take my hand.

"Don't let me interrupt your reading, Hermes."

"It isn't important, just a textbook in basic property law I brought over. I figured if anything could help Remus stay asleep, it would be that!"

**You should give him the minutes of Hogwarts faculty meetings, Albus. I'm sure all those brisk discussions about the shower curtains in the west wing bathrooms would soothe Remus to no end.**

"How is he?" I ask, looking around the grinning solicitor to where Remus lies clad in a hospital gown.

"They say he is recovering with remarkable speed." The kindly lawyer shrugs. "Probably something about being a werewolf."

"He looks quite good." Compared to Ron Weasley, Remus looks positively wonderful. His color is natural and his breathing is deep and regular.

"I think so, too. He has a way to go yet, though. You can't take a Fire Lance spell full in the chest and expect to go dancing that night, you know."

"Remus was never much of a dancer," I say with a smile.

"I suppose he wouldn't be. Pity. Anyway, he's lucky he fell forward and put himself out. This way he only has to worry about a skin replacement over the left side of his chest."

"Is it taking well?" Skin replacements after severe burns aren't easy, even for wizards.

"Perfectly. He'll have a pie-bald chest for a while though."

"I'm sure he'll manage, Hermes." Once again I bite my cheek to contain a laugh.

"Probably. They say he should be up and about in a few hours."

"Excellent! Please send word to me when he wakes." I fold my hands together on my staff and let myself give a tiny sigh of relief.

"I certainly will."

I turn to go, but then an inspiration hits. "Hermes, have you ever heard of the Thrall Laws?"

He frowns. "Oh, yes! From the Wyrding Period!"

I quickly explain the situation with Harry. Hermes' expression turns to wonder and then horror.

"The bastards!" he squeaks, so astonished his voice goes up two octaves. "It sounds like something they would try!"

"Hermes," I say slowly, "what I'm going to say now is sheer conflict of interest, coming from the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. I would understand if you don't want to continue this conversation."

"What conversation?" he answers with a perfectly straight face.

**Too bad this one went to Ravenclaw. Slytherin could use some variety.**

"Good. Do you think you could do some research for me and some – colleagues, on the subject of the Thrall Laws? Your time would be paid for, of course."

"I would be happy to do that, Headmaster. I assume you want to know ways of thwarting them?"

"Yes, indeed. Do you know Justice Begay of the Wizarding State?"

His eyes grow round. "Well, I know _of _him, of course."

"Do you have access to a Message Mirror?"

"Yes, we have one in our office. It's spelled for the utmost confidentiality."

"Excellent!" I pick up some paper and a quill from the nightstand and hastily scrawl some instructions. "Follow this procedure and it will put you in contact with Jeff Begay's personal Mirror. He may have some thoughts in this matter."

"I will certainly do that, Headmaster."

Two nurses bustle in, carrying wands, bedclothes, and a variety of bizarre looking instruments. "Excuse us," one says with the same brisk efficiency I have often noted in Poppy, "we need to do some tests and change the sheets."

"Why don't you walk with me, Mr. Reed?" I ask on a sudden impulse. "It will take them a little while. I'm sure you could use a break."

**Getting tired of listening to me, Albus?**

Got it in one, Tom.

"I would be honored, Headmaster."

We walk briskly up the stairs again and up to a large iron door, the entrance to the mental ward. A hulking nurse admits us and we wind our way up a narrow flight of stairs. Ancient portraits of long forgotten healers call unwelcome advice to us as we ascend. I make a point of ignoring them, but Hermes engages in good-natured banter with one who asks whether his purple bow tie is a remedy for something called "King's Croup."

We exit onto another of the hospital's interminable corridors. Turning into an open door on our right we enter a crowded room. Luna Lovegood sits on one side along with Mrs. Longbottom. The American I met in the Ministry holding area is seated on the opposite side of the bed, next to a tall, gaunt man with a high forehead. A youth of maybe nineteen lounges insolently atop a table against the rear wall. As we enter he grins, displaying a set of teeth filed to match the numerous serpent tattoos covering his face and bare arms. Neville Longbottom lays on the bed, still muttering the mantra he has been repeating ever since his encounter with the Dementor during the Battle of Diagon Alley, as our recent fight is being called in the press.

"Professor!" Mrs. Longbottom exclaims, coming quickly to her feet, "he is still no better!" Her voice is accusing, as if it is all my fault. But her eyes are reddened and her face pinched.

"I know, Mrs. Longbottom," I say softly, "we must have hope." I put my hand on her upper arm and look her directly in the eye. "I have called for help. I have every reason to believe it will be arriving shortly."

Actually, that last is stretching the truth. I have sent an urgent message to Doctor Mahalan, urging him to speed up his journey if at all possible. I can only hope my desperation was effectively conveyed.

I look over to where Luna is sitting and say, "How are you holding up, Miss Lovegood?"

"Quite well, Headmaster," she answers in her dreamy voice. "It always takes a while for someone to get better."

"So it does, my dear." I turn to the odd trio across the room. "Mr. Rand, I believe?"

"That's right, Professor." He rises to shake my hand. "My associates, Justin Rutskoi," the tall man nods, not taking his concerned gaze from Neville, "and Cat Newcastle." The boy grins again in his serpentine manner. "If the resources of the Aesculapius Foundation can be of any aid, please say so."

"I understand you are already providing support to St. Mungo's, Mr. Rand," I answer. "I know of nothing else you could do."

"Perhaps we could aid in speeding up Dr. Mahalan's arrival?" he asks. "We have supported many of his research projects in the past. We would be more than happy to provide any aid or incentive he requires."

I frown. "If I may be so bold," I ask slowly, "how did you know about Dr. Mahalan?" There is something strange about the man's eyes, but I can't quite place what it is.

He shrugs. "Who else would you call for Mr. Longbottom and Mr. Potter except the world's leading expert on Dementors?"

**Wait a minute! Wait just one effing minute! How did he know about Harry's condition?**

Good question, Tom.

Mr. Rand's smile is – well, not a smirk or a sneer, but all too knowing just the same. "I am sure you would like a walk, Mrs. Longbottom. You too, Luna. Mr. Reed, …"

"No need, Professor!" Rand interjects. "I am sure Cat would be more than happy to escort the ladies."

The boy makes to object, but some unspoken message seems to pass between him and the American. Sullenly, he slithers off the table. Mrs. Longbottom needs no one to explain the situation to her. Taking Luna by the arm she rises, dusts off her skirt, and follows the slouching teenager from the room. Rutskoi rises as well and comes to stand behind Rand, looking at me with a concerned expression.

"I'm sorry about Cat," Rand says, "his manners really are terrible."

I have it! It isn't Rand's eyes that are strange.

"Might I see your glasses, Mr. Rand?" I ask softly.

Rutskoi starts, but Rand holds up a hand to calm him. "Of course." He takes off his spectacles and hands them to me. Immediately he closes his eyes and stumbles, as if suddenly dizzy. Rutskoi catches his elbow to steady him.

I look quickly at the glasses, running my index finger over the band of runes engraved around the edge of each lens. I hand them back with a smile.

"Interesting, Mr. Rand. No wizard would need such lenses. Nor would a Squib."

"That only leaves one thing then, doesn't it?" he says, replacing the spectacles on his face. His dizzy spell seems to pass the instant the glasses settle over his nose. He straightens and regards me gravely.

"Pardon me?" Hermes asks.

"Mr. Rand here is a Muggle, are you not sir?"

"By your definition, I suppose I am," he allows.

"The glasses!" Hermes exclaims as understanding breaks.

"A gift from my wife's family," Rand says. "They are always worrying about me."

"I see." I regard him over my own spectacles. "They obviously protect you from anti-muggle wards. Do they allow you to see Dementors, as well?"

"Yes, along with many other useful functions."

"Such objects are highly illegal in Britain." I observe dryly.

"In the Wizarding State as well," Hermes interjects.

"Yes, but the law is usually not enforced in the Wizarding State unless you draw attention to yourself." Rand makes an open-handed gesture. "Too many husbands and wives and step-children and school pals would have to be hauled in."

"I'm afraid our Pure Bloods would delight in that sight," Hermes says.

"We don't have too many of those. National policy."

Hermes frowns. "You mean with rumors about the Wizarding Tax are true?"

"Of course." Rand and Rutskoi both chuckle.

"I am afraid I'm not up on American tax law," I say.

Hermes is happy to explain. "You see, American wizards have to be licensed yearly by the Wizarding State to practice magic. The license fee is based on income, and married wizards have to file jointly with their spouse. The fee for a married couple is much more than twice that of a single wizard – if both spouses are wizards, that is."

"Exactly," Rutskoi says, speaking for the first time. "The financial good of a wizard or witch is MUCH better served by marriage to a non-magical. You also get heavy deductions if your child is a half-blood. The policies evolved after the Separationist Crisis of the Civil War Era."

"It's a complicated story," Rand says, "but anyway, that's the gist of the present situation."

"It's still illegal," Hermes observes, mildly.

"Want to call an Auror?" Rand asks, his eyebrow cocked.

"I don't think that would be necessary." I say, allowing myself to smile. "Or wise, perhaps. Unless I miss my guess, those spectacles aren't the only useful objects you carry, are they, Mr. Rand? And it isn't 'Mister,' is it?"

"It is 'Mister,' although there was a time when it was 'General.' And no, my glasses aren't the only surprises I have on my person."

"I thought as much," I allow. "Do you have something to say to me, Mr. Rand?"

"Quite a few things, in fact."

Neville moans suddenly, and Rutskoi shoots a worried glance toward the bed.

"Go ahead, Justin," Rand says, "I don't think I need protection at the moment."

Rutskoi shoots me a veiled glance and hurries back to the bed.

"Justin is very worried," Rand explains softly, "he has grown quite fond of Neville the last several days. As have we all – even Cat, and that's saying something."

"Neville is a most likeable young man," I allow.

"Will you be meeting with representatives of the Ministry, this afternoon?" Rand asks.

"Yes," I say, "I will. I take it you would like to pass a message along?"

"I would like to speak with them personally, if possible. There are matters that need to be understood."

"I see." I frown and draw myself to my full height, allowing my magical aura to expand. "Do you think you should be meddling in these matters, Mr. Rand?"

Rand pales, but he holds my gaze with his cool grey eyes. "It is my duty, Headmaster," he says quietly. "And I think you need to hear what I have to say."

"Which is?" I shoot a questioning thought in his direction, as much as I can without using my wand. It bounces back, not surprisingly. Doubtless his glasses, or some other talisman in his clothing, protect him from Legilimency.

"Which will be revealed in the proper setting," he replies evenly. "There are factions within factions and wheels within wheels. I am proceeding carefully for a reason, Headmaster."

"And you can reveal nothing to me personally?"

"Of course. But first, please cut out the demi-god routine. It's about to give me a splitting headache."

**Well, I never!**

I never have either, Tom.

Bemused, I carefully dampen my aura. Rand pours himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the nightstand and produces a small plastic bag of pills. Tearing open the bag with his teeth, he spills the contents into his and swallows the lot in one gulp.

"There!" he smiles, "Much better."

Hermes looks at the bag with a questioning expression.

"Standard equipment in this situation," Rand explains. "Codeine capsules, aspirin, and SSRIs."

"SSRIs?" Hermes asks.

"Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors," Rand replies. "They provide a world of benefits – including a certain amount of immunity to the effects of Dementors."

"Anti-depressants," I say in realization.

"Yes. Now, as to what I can say to you Professor, it is this. There are many people in the world who are more than a little concerned about recent events. They feel things are slipping out of control, and many old understandings and policies are being endangered."

"These people being?" I ask.

"People who feel they can't afford to be identified at the moment," he says easily. "This isn't a threat, Professor. Just an expression of concern."

"I see. And do they have anything else to say to me personally?"

"Only that they are sure you understand the gravity of the problem, as many people in Britain do not."

"I believe I do, Mr. Rand."

"Good. Because, and this is from me personally, if this gets much more out of hand, well…"

"Yes, Mr. Rand?" I say softly.

"If this gets much more out of hand, Professor," he says evenly, "all of us are going to be facing the worst magical crisis since Camlan. And this time, we don't have Arthur to trade his life for victory."

I bow my head, leaning heavily on my staff.

**I'm starting to like this man, Albus.**

You would, Tom.

"Or," Rand says suddenly, his voice soft, "do we?"

I jerk my head up. Rand reels backwards as my aura suddenly flares. Rutskoi catches his employer with one arm, his wand suddenly out in his free hand.

"No, Justin!" Rand says firmly, coming to his feet and staring me in the eye once again. "Don't tell me this is not a scenario you have foreseen, Professor."

**Yes, I do like this man, Albus!**

"You are a cruel man, Mr. Rand," I say, proud that my voice is steady.

"And a violent one," he answers evenly. "But such is the nature of my profession."

"And those you represent?"

"Most people are violent and cruel where they perceive themselves as being threatened," he says.

"I suppose so." I turn on my heel. Hermes shoots Rand a disapproving glance and hurries after me. I stop, not turning. "Be downstairs in half an hour, Mr. Rand."

"Very well."

I stride out of the room. Hermes follows quickly at my heels.

**Better to get rid of the solicitor, Albus. You don't want him to see what's next.**

When Tom is right, he's right – much as I dislike admitting it.

"Hermes," I say, careful to keep my smile in place, "please wait for me downstairs."

He gives me a look of concern but nods. With a slight inclination of my head, I turn and head for the lift. I ride silently and alone to the top floor and exit onto the mental ward.

Harry's screams reach me as I step off the lift. I move forward slowly, leaning on the staff. Reaching the heavy steel door, I lift the staff and knock loudly.

A small port opens, revealing the cool eyes of one of the nurses. "Professor Dumbledore," she says over the cries, "this is not the best time."

**Why do nurses always have to understate things? It's tiresome.**

"Just a few minutes, please," I say softly.

She sighs and opens the door. The room is padded, but otherwise looks much like a regular hospital room. Harry lies strapped in the bed in the center of the room. As I approach he arches and screams once again. Bloody streaks, like whip marks, appear on his naked abdomen. _Stigmata Arcanum._

I look into his eyes, which are blank and unseeing. Carefully, I reach down and stroke his cheek. "Harry," I say softly, "it's me, Albus Dumbledore."

He snarls and twists his head, biting viciously at my hand. Or rather he tries to. The rubber bit fastened in place between his teeth prevents him. Nevertheless, I jerk back reflexively.

**Hmmm. I wonder if that means that he didn't recognize you or that he did?**

"He is very bad right now," the nurse says, her voice kind. "He should calm down in a few minutes." The male nurse who is leaning heavily against the padded wall nods in agreement.

Harry is, well, …

**He looks like something out of a Muggle horror story, Albus.**

Yes, he does. He is naked to the waist, with the bedclothes pulled up to his abdomen for modesty. I see that they are soaked with blood and… other fluids. A neat stack of fresh sheets rests near the bed, doubtless waiting for this episode to subside so the nurses can change them out. Harry's arms and torso are criss-crossed with weeping wounds like multiple lash marks. A thin trail of blood and saliva oozes from either side of his mouth around the bit, trickling down his jaws. He arches once more, screaming as his body forms a bow. I don't know how he can manage to scream around the bit, probably yet another manifestation of uncontrolled and diseased magic. However he accomplishes it, scream he does, with a volume that bashes my eardrums and makes both nurses wince. I wonder how they can stand it.

Moving forward again, I reach out and seize one of his hands. "Harry, we will help you, I promise!"

He only screams again.

My chest aches, my joints are burning, my eyes are stinging with tears I cannot seem to shed. I slowly release his hand and fall back.

"Professor," the woman nurse calls, "your robes!"

I look down and see a smear of bright crimson across the front of my white robe. I raise my hand. My fingers are covered with blood.

**My, how appropriate.**

I look down in horror at Harry. The cuffs around his wrists have abraded his skin, and heavy rivulets of blood are oozing over his palms. He arches and screams yet again.

And for the first time in nearly fifty years, I turn and flee.

Reaching the outside corridor, I lean heavily on the staff. There is a dull pain in my chest, and the air I breathe in seems thick and syrupy.

**Remember, Albus. In with the good air, out with the bad. In with the good air, out with the bad.**

I will say one thing for Tom; he is a storehouse of practical advice for emergencies.

I straighten and sigh heavily. I hate that Harry is here, of all places. But his injuries are beyond Poppy's skill, not that they are within the realm of St. Mungo's capabilities, either. The truth is he got swept up in the general rush to get everyone to the hospital and triaged, and I was so close to collapsing from magical reserve exhaustion that the first I knew of it was when a panicking Tonks told me that she and Alastor Moody were having to use all their authority as Aurors to keep the St. Mungo's staff at bay. And it wasn't easy, I'm sure. Healers spend years developing their skills at intimidation, and fighting them off on their own ground required heroics of argument that even Alastor could not have sustained indefinitely. Luckily I was able to arrange a compromise (it helps that most of the Healers automatically think of me as their Headmaster, and Dilys threw in some supporting comments from her portrait). Harry was moved into one of the unused rooms in this, the near-abandoned high-security portion of the mental ward, and was assigned a rotating staff of nurses, pending "further arrangements." I have so far been able to keep the Mind Healers at a distance, but I'm not sure I can keep it up indefinitely. Perival-Lanham in particular is pressing hard, and as he is a Canadian and did not attend Hogwarts my status does not work to the same advantage with him as with some of the others. And the true irony of it is that the highly circumstantial evidence of Perival-Lanham's involvement with the Death Eaters is probably totally misleading and he is most likely innocent and completely trustworthy. But it is not a chance I can take.

"Hem, hem…"

Then there's THAT problem.

I turn wearily, making sure that my face is totally calm. Dolores Umbridge is peering out of the grill in the door opposite Harry's room. She simpers and smiles at me. "Professor Dumbledore. I do hope Mr. Potter is a _little_ better."

"He is improving, Madam Umbridge. Thank you for your concern."

"Not at all. I was so _worried _when they brought him in. I think about all my students often. I am sure you understand."

"Of course, Madam Umbridge."

**Now if ever there was a sign that somebody in St. Mungo's hates you, Albus, this is it.**

Actually, I believe it to be a total accident. When the Chief Healer mentioned this part of the ward, I had forgotten that Madam Bones had ordered Dolores moved to a more secure location within the hospital. I didn't learn the truth until my first visit to Harry late yesterday.

"Now, I was wondering, Professor, I know the Healers are _so_ busy, but about my case, have they mentioned anything?"

"I would not be privy to private information about your health, Madam Umbridge. Would you like me to send one of the Healers to you?"

"Not at all." She simpers again. "If you might mention to them, however, that I am feeling _so_ much better…"

"I will certainly convey the message. I am happy that you are recovering from your difficulties."

A spasm of rage crosses her features, but is smoothed away almost instantly. "Thank you, Professor. As you know, the episode in…" she frowns, and her eyes suddenly dart about in fright. However she recovers almost immediately from the effects of her near mistake. She must be learning how to avoid that particular memory.

**My, a toad, but a smart toad. If she keeps it up she might be almost as intelligent as Trevor. Wonder if he would like to meet her?**

"I am aware that you have had a very difficult time these last few weeks, Madam Umbridge," I say aloud.

She hisses in anger, but quickly regains her composure once again. "Also, Professor, I know this might be forward, but about the charges pending?"

"As Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot I am not in a position to discuss proceedings that may soon be before the court. I am sure you remember that, Madam."

At that she turns rose red and her eyes bulge in anger. "The charges are worthless! Scheming lies from evil, ungrateful children!" She grasps the bars of the grill with her pudgy fingers. "Liars, all of them, liars!"

**On second thought, Trevor can do better than that.**

"I am afraid there is quite a large amount of testimony in this case, Madam. Not to mention certain physical evidence. However, if that is your defense it is of course your right. I would strongly recommend that you plan your defense with a barrister, however. Good day." I turn and walk away slowly.

"I HOPE HE DIES, DUMBLEDORE! I HOPE THE SCHEMING LITTLE LIAR CHOKES ON HIS OWN SCREAMS AND DIES!" Her squeal is like that of a wounded sow.

I pause.

**Well, there are several things I might recommend in this situation.**

Slowly, not turning around, I lift my staff.

This is not correct. This is not right.

I lower the staff again. My chest feels like it is on fire.

**Oh, Albus, you continue to disappoint me.**

"I'M GLAD HE'S MAD! I HOPE HE SCREAMS FOREVER!"

My throat constricts so hard I let out a strangled cough. My arm drifts upward, carrying the staff. Squeezing my eyes shut, I rap the end of the staff rhythmically against the floor.

Umbridge yelps and falls silent. After a moment a terrified whimper issues from her cell.

**Then again, you do have potential.**

Gathering my bloodstained robes in my free hand, I walk forward, not looking back.


	3. Grim Tidings

Author-Dzeytoun

Rating-PG13

Category-Angst/Drama

Disclaimer-Main characters and settings owned by JK Rowling

HERE BE MONSTERS III: THE WOMB OF LILITH

Chapter Three: Grim Tidings

Sunday, 7 July, 1996

_1501 GMT_

Lifts are wonderful things. They hide so many necessary but unsightly activities – such as Scourgifying blood from your robes. I am also reliably informed that they are very convenient locations for brief snogging sessions. Unfortunately, by the time those clever Muggles made lifts popular enough for wizards to copy them, I was already much too old for such indulgences.

**Drat the luck.**

Why, Tom, I never knew you had it in you.

**The head boy's private room has MANY uses, Albus. You don't think I spent all my time seventh year delving into Dark Arts.**

Actually, I do think that, Tom. Would that you had found a girlfriend (or boyfriend, for that matter) for illicit ahem amusement. It would have been much less destructive, in the long run.

**Why, Albus, you dirty old pornographer, you!**

Do shut up, Tom.

The lobby of St. Mungo's is usually chaotic. I suspect, however, that they haven't seen crowds like this since the last war. A herd of humanity is crammed into the relatively small space, all of them, it seems, screaming questions. As I exit the lift a momentary hush fills the room. And then the questions are redoubled, all of them shouted at me.

"It was HIM, wasn't it, Professor? What are we going to do, Headmaster? Can you help get more information from the Healers, Headmaster? Professor…. Headmaster….. Please….. Can you….. Will you….. Could you…." I smile and make a little speech about courage and determination and how the Healers are working heroically. It really is political pabulum, although every point I bring up is true. And it seems to be what they want. The questions die down, the expressions grow markedly less tense, and the faces turned to me are respectful, and some even worshipful.

**BAAAAAH.**** I don't know why you bother, Albus. These sheep would have gladly seen you exiled from Hogwarts forever. Take the boy and move to Bermuda.**

Sometimes I am tempted. May whatever gods there are forgive me, but sometimes I am terribly tempted.

A loud screech echoes through the lobby, sending wizards and witches scrambling every which direction. With a majestic flap of its wings, a large golden eagle sweeps down from the Owl Port and lands on the receptionist's desk. Even that bored, normally unflappable functionary backpedals as the large raptor alights and glares about with an eagle's usual foul-humored expression.

I catch sight of the star-emblazoned blue envelope tied to the bird's right leg and hurry forward. It glances at me disdainfully then extends its leg with regal condescension. The address on the envelope reads:

_Albus Dumbledore_

_Lobby_

_Saint Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies_

_London_

**Watch it, Albus, or you'll draw back a nub.**

Taking Tom's advice, I gingerly untie the message and look around the desk for a letter opener. A peculiar avian cough draws my attention back to the eagle. The bird looks at me with redoubled disdain and pokes its leg forward, rotating it slightly to hold out one sharp talon.

"Why, thank you!" I exclaim, gently slitting the envelope open on the razor-sharp edge of the proffered nail. The eagle nods and gives a sharp click of its beak, which I take to mean "Don't mention it." Years of dealing with Fawkes have given me a certain talent for deciphering avian intentions.

I carefully unfold the heavy parchment and read:

_The Embassy of the American Wizarding State hereby invites you to greet His Excellency Senator Aurelius Pierre Ash, Legislative Envoy of the American Wizarding State, and  
Mrs. Corazon Malfoy Dominguez y Ash with their ward, Ms. Penelope Julietta upon their arrival in the Wizarding World of Great Britain_

_Monday, July 8, 1996_

_Please RSVP with a location to which you would prefer your portkey to be delivered._

_You are further invited to a reception for Senator and Mrs. Ash and Ms. Julietta sponsored by His Excellency Byron Arkwell, Ambassador of the Ministry of Magic of the Dominion of Canada, Her Excellency Esmerelda Cabot, Ambassador of the Ministry of Magic of the Commonwealth of Australia, His Excellency Juan Lopez Navidad, Ambassador of the Audiencia del Protomago of the United States of Mexico, and His Excellency Toshiro Kenabe, Ambassador of the WuJen Brotherhood of Japan_

_P.S. Please feed Franklin. He has a bad habit of scarfing up stray house elves when he's offended. It took a whole day to sew the last one back together._

I look at the eagle, who I presume is Franklin. He regards me calmly. I then look to the nervous receptionist. "I think you had better notify the kitchens. Something raw appears to be in order."

"Right away, Professor!" she exclaims, heading off at a trot.

Franklin gives two satisfied-sounding screeches.

I hastily scribble a reply on the back of the parchment and stuff it into the return envelope that has been provided. By the time I'm finished an exceedingly nervous house elf has arrived bearing a tray with something that looks like uncooked steaks. The eagle eyes the steaks, then the elf, plainly trying to decide which would taste better.

"Ahem," I say loudly.

Franklin looks at me, then gives the feathery shiver that serves birds for a shrug. Lowering his head, he devours the steaks with three snaps of his beak. I take advantage of the distraction to tie the letter back around his leg.

Straightening, Franklin nods to me, gives the shivering house elf one last appreciative glance, and rises with a powerful flap of his wings. Giving a last imperious screech, he rises and vanishes through the Owl Port (which, luckily, is enchanted to accommodate his large form).

**Well, you don't see that every day.**

I think that's the point, Tom. I think that's the point.

"I'm looking for the Weasley family," I say to the receptionist, who has yet to recover her shield of officious boredom.

"They commandeered one of the private areas," she says with a hint of disapproval.

**Commandeered indeed.**** I bet Molly was fit to set a dragon running.**

"Down the hall and to the left," the receptionist continues, managing to sound half-bored.

"Thank you. Oh, and there were a couple of Aurors…"

"I believe they are in the room as well, Headmaster."

"Excellent! I believe an American gentleman will be asking for me shortly. If you could please give him directions? Oh, and I believe a Mr. Reed will be along as well."

"Of course, Headmaster. I believe Mr. Reed is already in the room as well."

I give her an encouraging smile (I vaguely remember her as a not-too-bright Hufflepuff) and set off down the corridor. I find the room with no trouble. It is a standard hospital waiting area, stuffed full of decaying couches and several plastic chairs that look like they were stolen from the outer lobby. It is also stuffed full with Weasleys. Molly is stretched prone on one of the couches, dozing. Arthur is sitting in a chair by her head, looking like he has aged twenty years in the past two days. The twins are in two of the other chairs, looking worriedly at a huge stack of papers that Hermes Reed appears to be trying to explain to them in his soft tones. Tonks sits on the remaining couch, even the bright pink of her hair seeming dimmed; Alastor is at her side, looking grouchy as always. But it is Bill who is the most agitated, pacing up and down in the middle of the room, a Muggle cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.

"I'll kill him…" Bill mutters as I enter silently through the half-open door.

"I hope you are not referring to me, Mr. Weasley," I say with a light tone, making sure to smile, "I have only just got used to walking again."

"Professor!" Arthur exclaims, leaping to his feet and coming to take my hand, "It wasn't you. Bill is…"

"Furious at the great gits I have for brothers is what I am!" Bill growls, coming to put a hand on his father's shoulder. The twins look at him, their faces for once somber and ridden with … guilt?

**Well, they DID bring about this whole mess, Albus. In a manner of speaking.**

Yes, but only in a manner of speaking.

"Those two," Bill continues, jerking his thumb toward the twins, "decide to open a joke shop in the middle of a war zone! Ron decides to throw himself in the path of a Fire Spear. And Percy…" his face darkens and his voice chokes as the empty hand at his side closes convulsively in a fist.

"Percy has not yet been here," his father says evenly.

"Percy won't come!" Fred (or is it George?) says loudly.

"Hmmm? Percy?" Molly stirs and half-rises, looking around with expectation in her eyes.

George (or is it Fred?) gives his brother a disapproving glance and moves over to speak to his mother quietly. After a moment she shoos him away. "I'm quite all right, George! Headmaster, come sit beside me. You too, Madam Bones!"

I turn in surprise (although I take care not to look surprised) to find Amelia Bones standing behind me, one hand still on the door. "Amelia!" I exclaim, "What good fortune. Yes, do join us!" I gesture to the couch on which Molly is now sitting.

"If it isn't a terrible time…" she begins.

"Sit down, Amelia," Alastor grumps. "War doesn't wait for a good time."

**What a pithy little saying. You shall have to remember that one, Albus.**

I'm sure you will remember it for me, Tom.

The couch is so soft that even my thin frame presses deep into its recesses. I am suddenly glad of the staff I'm carrying (and that I now lean carefully against the wall within easy reach). I shall undoubtedly need it to pry myself from the sofa's clutches.

"Let us begin with an update on our friends, shall we?" I say quietly. "Remus is recovering rapidly. He will awaken at any time. I am also told that Ron is healing well."

"Yes," Arthur answers quickly, and a bit too brightly, "he is doing very well indeed, considering."

"Unfortunately," I continue, feeling a heaviness settle into my voice, "Mr. Longbottom's condition is unchanged."

"And Harry?" Molly asks fearfully. I look over and see that she, too, has aged these past couple of days. Her eyes are moist.

"I'm afraid that Harry is still in the grip of whatever force seized him during the battle. The … episodes… are getting less frequent, I'm told. However they are still very...

**Frightening? Terrifying? Horrendous? Nauseating?**

"...dramatic."

Molly seems to wilt a little at that. But after a moment she squares her shoulders and nods firmly. "Well, less frequent is better."

"Of course it is, my dear," Arthur says quickly.

"Now," I say briskly, "shall we turn to our present business? Mr. Potter is in very good hands, indeed. I will say, however, that I hope that more specialized help will be arriving very soon. But," I continue quickly before anyone can interject any questions, "to the matter at hand. Amelia, can you tell us what the present understanding is concerning the attack on Diagon Alley?"

"Certainly," Madam Bones replies with her usual comforting no-nonsense efficiency, "I…"

A knock at the door interrupts her. I motion for Bill to greet the new visitor, and am unsurprised when Mr. Rand enters the room. "Ah, Mr. Rand," I say by way of greeting, "allow me to introduce everyone." I quickly make the round of the room. Rand stands with a small smile on his face, his ice blue eyes twitching to each new face in turn. "And this is Mr. Matthew Rand," I say, "current head of special projects for the Aesculapius Foundation..."

"European Branch," he interjects.

".. And here is his capacity as an unofficial messenger for – many people, I suspect."

"Yes, that about covers it," Rand sinks into a rickety folding chair, "I am sorry I interrupted you, Madam Bones."

Amelia looks at me with a small frown. I motion for her to continue. Nothing we say in this room today is likely to remain secret for very long.

"The attack caused less damage than it at first appeared," Amelia says in a flat, official tone of voice, "however loss of property was quite extensive. I won't get into the actual figures, they are still being calculated, but it is sure to run into the millions of Galleons. Luckily, however, most of it will be covered by insurance."

"Providing anyone can ever figure out..." one of the twins begins.

"…how to fill out these bloody forms!" the other concludes, smacking the pile of papers Hermes Reed has been explaining.

"Yes," Amelia says dryly, "the loss of effort and business time will be quite extensive, and the loss of revenue to the Alley and Wizarding London will be significant. Luckily, the damage was only a fraction of what would have been incurred from the aerial bombardment if the atmospheric wards hadn't held."

"Yes," Hermes asks, "where did those wards come from? Surely the Ministry couldn't have erected them in secret?"

"Not at all," Amelia replies. "They are actually left over from the last great Muggle war. The Ministry erected them in 1940 to shield the Alley during the German bombardments of that era. After the war ended it was felt that it would be too difficult and dangerous, not to mention too noticeable, to attempt to collapse them, so they were allowed to decay naturally. It was only sheer luck that they had enough energy left to deflect the Death Eaters' attacks."

**Sheer luck and bad research on the Death Eaters' part.**** Unfortunate for them that Binns has no Dark predilections.**

Yes, Tom, that is indeed unfortunate from their perspective.

"What were those black spheres?" Bill asks.

"We don't know," Amelia says, "but the Unspeakables are making that question a priority. Can you tell us about damage to Gringott's, Mr. Weasley? The Goblins are being less than forthcoming."

"I am sure they are," Bill says. "The southernmost walls and wards of the main building were completely breached on a small scale. The Governors have ordered a complete sweep of the vaults to ascertain whether any Death Eaters may have tried to escape through the Gringott's tunnels. It will take several days to complete. There are dozens of levels of vaults and chambers in the greater bank complex."

"And the human toll, Amelia?" I ask softly.

Her lips come together in a grim, almost invisible line. "Twenty dead, including eight Aurors."

"Nine," Tonks interjects in a quiet voice, "Herman Eddlesworth died a couple of hours ago."

Amelia nods once, sharply. "The injured number well over a hundred," she says. "St. Mungo's is overwhelmed with the serious cases. Many people with minor injuries have been treated and released or referred to private practitioners in an attempt to free up hospital resources. We probably won't have firm numbers for another couple of days."

"Not as bad as it might have been," Alastor says in his growling baritone, "all things considered. Potter and his friends probably saved us a much greater disaster."

Molly draws a sharp breath and glares across at the crotchety old Auror. Evidently they have already had words about this.

**Alastor Moody versus Molly Weasley.**** Now there's a bout I would pay good money to see!**

I'm sure you would, Tom. I'm sure you would.

I move quickly to cut the tension. "Let us be thankful that more were not injured. Unfortunately, we are far from done with the current round of fighting. I believe we can probably expect an assault on Azkaban at any time."

"It would make sense," Alastor says. "The Auror Corps has taken a serious blow."

"And we can be sure that public hysteria will increase geometrically," Amelia observes. "Every wizarding family from Scotland to Cornwall will want to see an Auror out their window. The Ministry will be stretched so thin we will have no choice but to significantly weaken the defenses at Azkaban."

"Are you sure there is no choice?" Bill asks. He has put another Muggle cigarette to his lips and takes a brief drag.

Amelia gives a grim nod. "I'm afraid not. The Aurors are simply stretched too thin, even with MLE giving all the support it can. We will activate the reserve Corps, but that will only buy us so limited maneuver room."

I sigh. The Reserve Auror Corps is made up of retired and medically discharged Aurors. Many of them, like Alastor, are talented and fiercely dedicated. Unfortunately, also like Alastor, most of them have significant impediments to functioning fully in the field.

"Have you thought of requesting temporary reinforcements from elsewhere?" Rand asks suddenly. "I am told that the _Bureau de Magie_ has many talented operatives."

"It has been mentioned," Amelia says slowly. "However most of the European Wizarding Governments are experiencing waves of panic among their own populations, and it can only be a matter of time before the Dark Lord's sympathizers begin making trouble – as they already have in France. Besides, cooperation among Wizarding governments is not particularly strong in most areas, even in the best of cases, and with our own Ministry partially paralyzed…" she shrugs.

Rand nods and lapses into silence.

"So," I say slowly, "that is the domestic situation. What about the international, as Mr. Rand has brought that up?"

"Very bad," Amelia says. "The Australians have stabilized Death Eater and other Dark Wizard activity along their northern coast, but at the cost completely engaging their resources. We understand that they have requested aid from the Wizarding State. We have recent reports from the Unspeakables that the dimensional fabric in New Mexico is experiencing heavy ripples, but they can't quite tell what that means."

**My, my, the plot thickens its ugly head.**

Ignoring Tom and his mixed metaphors, I sit up straighter at Amelia's news. The Grey Headquarters is located near Roswell, New Mexico.

"I can answer that, I believe," Rand says softly. "I am told by my… associates… that the VII Legion Mysterion is deploying. They should be in position to support the Australians in a few hours."

I raise my hands to chest level and pat my finger tips together, careful to assume one of my calmest expressions. "A full legion?"

"Yes."

Pat, pat, pat. "Do your… sources… provide any other information?"

Rand favors me with a grim smile. "I am reliably told that the Death Eaters have been launching small expeditions deep into the Australian interior. No one seems to know what they are looking for."

**My, my.**** Isn't that special?**

"What about the Muggles?" Alastor asks suddenly. "They can't miss all that fighting."

"They haven't." Rand answers briefly. "The Australian Ministry has been in touch with the Australian Muggle Government." He sighs. "The Australian Army will go on alert in the next couple of hours."

"What!" Amelia exclaims. It is one of the few times I can remember seeing her taken aback.

"That's right," Rand continues calmly. "It is being explained as an exercise, of course. But it gets better. Janet Leung, the Grey Commander, was seen in Washington this morning, local time. Thirty minutes after she was spotted all leaves from the Carrier Task Force currently visiting Yokohama were cancelled. The force is expected to put to sea in six hours."

Amelia actually stares at him in amazement. I fold my hands together tightly as cold dread grips my stomach. "Another exercise?" I ask.

"Yes. Don't worry. The International Statute of Secrecy is still intact, but I can't deny it's under more stress than at any time in the last fifty years." He crosses his legs and folds his hands carefully on one knee. "Also, there has been an – incident."

"Incident?" I ask, letting my eyebrows rise sharply.

"I'm afraid so. Madam Bones, I believe you have lost contact with a certain emissary of yours? A young man who was poking around in certain dark nooks in the Washington area?"

Amelia's stare grows as intense as a Killing Curse. "How do you know that?"

"I'll take that as a yes." He reaches into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a pair of long, thin objects. Never breaking eye contact with Amelia, he throws them onto the table where they make a rattling sound that echoes in the room like thunder. I look down, knowing already what I will see.

**Mr. Ollivander won't be happy.**

No, he won't. Lying on the table are the pieces of a hickory wand that has been neatly snapped in two. Tufts of unicorn hair protrude from the broken ends.

"The people who caught our fine young Gryffindor – he was a Gryffindor, correct? – were not happy at all."

Amelia makes no sound, but I see her throat working as she swallows, hard.

"I have to say," Rand continues mildly, "a lot of people in the Wizarding State weren't happy, either. Turns out he was trying to get his hands on correspondence between the magical and non-magical governments. Naughty of him."

"We meant no harm," Amelia says softly, "but we felt like--"

"There were things you needed to know," Rand breaks in. He pinches his nose between thumb and forefinger and sighs. "Well, he probably knows a lot more about certain things now than he ever wanted to."

"What have they done with him?" Amelia asks.

"Oh, he isn't permanently harmed. Governor Torraco made a personal appeal to get him released. Right now he's one a plane winging its way to Heathrow. He'll be a little banged up and confused, but basically okay."

"Banged up?" Amelia's jaw is beginning to set in a stubborn expression. "Why wasn't that prevented?"

"Prevented? How?" Rand shakes his head. "What do you expect, a company of Greys to barge into the Pentagon, rescue your lad, and obliviate half the building? Sorry, but that just isn't going to happen. Relations between Washington and the Emerald City are pretty good, and nobody's going to kick over a piss pot just to rescue some spy who gets himself caught. It's just lucky they even listened to the Governor. I believe the plan was to cut his tongue out, sew his lips shut, and dump him out of a cargo plane over the Rocky Mountains. He can just count himself lucky that he isn't a red streak decorating some rock face in Wyoming."

"And what," Amelia asks, "would the Wizarding State have done about that?"

"Not a goddamn thing, as you well know." Rand replies evenly. "The point is things are rapidly getting out of hand. They are getting out of hand and if they aren't handled soon, a lot of people are going to die."

That statement is greeted with utter silence. The quiet stretches on for quite a long time.

A knock on the door makes us all jump. Bill Weasley grins sheepishly. Hermes giggles and gets up to answer it.

A young lady enters timidly and asks for me in a shy voice. She looks far too young to be working at St. Mungo's, but I remember her – a Hufflepuff who graduated from Hogwarts two years ago.

"I'm here, Mary," I call. "What is it?"

She comes over, not quite meeting my gaze. That was a habit of hers we could never quite break.

"There is someone asking for you, Professor. I know you said you didn't want to be disturbed, but he – well, he convinced the shift supervisor to send for you." Her voice holds great disapproval of this. "Should I tell them you aren't available?"

I almost say yes, as we still have a great deal of ground to cover. But I take pity on her fear. "Who is it?"

She smiles. "Some foreign mind healer. He says his name's Erkki Mahalan."


	4. Devotions

Author-Dzeytoun

Rating-PG13

Category-Angst/Drama

Disclaimer-Main characters and settings owned by JK Rowling

A/N: A long-awaited update. In the interest of getting it to you fast, it hasn't been beta-reviewed. Mistakes are fully mine.

HERE BE MONSTERS III: THE WOMB OF LILITH

Chapter Four: Devotions

Sunday, 7 July, 1996

_1634 GMT_

I'm not surprised that Mahalan has taken over an office on the first floor. I am surprised, as I enter, to find that he has _transfigured_ said office. At least, I doubt the original inhabitant favored large paintings of northern taiga and cheerful street scenes featuring

reindeer, sleds, and characters most definitely /not/ drawn from English experience – especially the large, intelligent looking trolls handing out toys to eager children. Also, although the office's owner might have liked the roaring fire (although not in the middle of July), he or she probably wouldn't have painted the room this particular shade of

soft yellow – which, I must admit, is rather soothing.

Two chairs are drawn up before the large fire – which does not seem to be putting out any heat. An avian perch stands behind one of the chairs, providing a resting place for a beautiful Arctic Phoenix, its white and blue plumage gleaming softly in the firelight as if it were an incredibly graceful ice-sculpture. A large blond man in a blue and white cardigan is seated in front of the phoenix perch, puffing clouds of pink smoke out of a pipe with an enormous bowl easily the size of a man's fist. He is talking softly with a house-elf clad in grey robes and a bright red hat.

"Hello, Professor Dumbledore," Mahalan says, coming to his feet and holding out his hand, "I am so pleased to finally meet you."

"And I you, Doctor," I answer, taking the remaining chair as he gestures for me to sit down.

The house-elf clears his throat loudly.

"Ah, forgive me, Little Father." Mahalan beams benignly at the elf, who is looking around with an expression that I am all too familiar with from my time with Iris – he plainly disapproves of something. "Professor Dumbledore, may I present Luonar, _saunatundo_ of the Mahalan family."

"I am honored," I say carefully. I have heard tales of the special relationship between Finnish wizards and their elves, or _tundo_, as they call them. I do not want to get things off on the wrong foot.

"As am I, Professor," the elf replies, gravely.

**Oh my stars and comets. Did that elf just use a personal pronoun?**

Mahalan coughs softly. As I look over to him I see what might have been the fleeting edge of a smile, but he hides his mouth with one hand and coughs again.

"I was afraid of that," Luonar says flatly, "you are already suffering from this island's foul weather."

As it has, in fact, been a beautiful July so far, I don't quite know how to respond to that. Luckily, my response is not needed.

"All in the call of duty, Little Father," Mahalan says lightly.

"Professor Dumbledore, I have taken the liberty of acquainting myself with the medical files of several persons besides Harry Potter." He waves to a neat stack of folders on the edge of the room's beautiful cherry desk. "I greatly believe in context."

"As do I," I say truthfully.

"Good." He settles back and puffs a few more pink clouds. "Would you like a pipe, Professor?"

"No thank you. I don't smoke." Not unless I've taken pepper-up potion, anyway."

"Really? I'm surprised. What a lovely staff! May I?" He reaches out an empty hand. Bemused, I pass him the staff.

"Beautiful!" he murmurs. "This can't be wizard work."

"I don't believe it is."

"Wizards unfortunately don't tend to make very good artists," he observes with a slightly sad tone. "Too impatient. Always wanting to use magic for everything."

"I have found that to be the case, as well." In fact, it is a carefully guarded secret (from certain parties, that is) that most of the portraits at Hogwarts, including even Phineus Nigellus', were painted by Muggles and later enchanted by their subjects. Few wizards study the creative arts, and fewer still attain any level of achievement. As Mahalan has said, wizards do not have the patience for such endeavors.

**Better not let the Board of Governors hear that one, Albus. You'll be sleeping on Aberforth's couch again.**

Mahalan does chuckle aloud this time. I carefully suppress a frown and quickly check the standard Occlumency barriers I always keep in place. They are firm and show no signs of attack or penetration.

"Well, Professor," he says, handing back the staff, "tell me about Harry."

"The Boy Who Lived is a complicated subject," I say carefully.

"I'm sure he is, but I didn't ask you about him." Mahalan settles himself comfortably and regards me with a tolerant gaze.

"I believe that you did, Doctor."

"I believe that I did not, Professor. I asked about Harry."

"Mr. Potter is the boy who lived, Doctor," I say, carefully keeping my voice mild.

"Yes, but I didn't ask you about Mr. Potter, either." He puffs a little more. "I asked about Harry. Harry may be both Mr. Potter and the Boy Who Lived, but the Boy Who Lived and Mr. Potter are not /Harry, if you take my meaning."

"Ah."

**Better watch this one, Albus. He'll be arguing interpretation of Wizengamot decisions next.**

Mahalan throws back his head and laughs. "I'm not a lawyer, young Mr. Riddle."

My eyes widen involuntarily, and I quickly check my shields yet again. They are all strong and undamaged.

"Don't worry about your Occlumency barriers, Professor. I assure you I have not subverted them. It's just that you aren't used to dealing with the psychic devotions."

"It was my understanding," I say softly, "that Occlumency and Legilimency were the psychic devotions."

"Well, you were wrong," Mahalan says simply. "Now, back to the subject at hand. Please tell me about Harry."

"What do you mean, Doctor?"

Mahalan sighs and a look of annoyance crosses his gentle features. "Start with the present situation."

I give a brief summary of recent events, coming to an end with Harry's present condition. Mahalan listens, nodding encouragement from time to time.

"Now Neville," he says softly as I finish.

Suppressing a sigh of my own, I comply with his request. I note that the pronoun-proficient house elf has retreated into the shadows with the usual skill of his kind.

" Very good," Mahalan comments when I reach the end of my tale, " by which of course I mean very bad." He sits silent for a moment, deep in thought. "I think we will begin with Neville. Best we do simple things first."

"All right," I begin, "his room…"

"Thank you!" he exclaims, cutting me off. Before I can even close my mouth, he has bounded from his chair and made for the door. He opens it and sweeps through, leaving me to follow bemusedly in his wake.

With unerring accuracy, he bounds up the stairs to the correct floor, as I haul myself up behind him feeling increasingly uneasy. He heads straight for Neville's room and throws open the door. As I approach I hear the voices of Luna Lovegood and Hermione Granger, who have evidently been sitting with the comatose boy.

"There hasn't been any change at all, Doctor," Hermione is saying.

"There hasn't?" His voice is surprised. "Have you noticed anything, Miss Lovegood?"

"Yes," comes Luna's dreamy voice, "his sleep is lighter."

"I've seen no sign of that!" Hermione snaps as I reach the door. I enter to find her standing on one side of Neville's bed, glaring at Luna sitting near the bed's foot. Luna just looks calmly back.

"Is that so?" Mahalan says softly.

"It…" Hermione doesn't get to finish that sentence. The fat wizard reaches into his sweater and pulls out a short sword that he doubtless had secreted in some extradimensional pocket.

**Tis a sharp cure, but a sure one for all ills.**

_Shut up, Tom._

"Don't worry, Miss Granger," he says, "this is the Finnish way of magic. We trust metal more than wood." He carefully lays the sword on Neville's chest and folds the boy's hands over the hilt.

I see no change in the boy at all, but Mahalan's face brightens sharply. Luna leans forward, her smile broadening as well.

"Most encouraging, don't you think?" Mahalan says quietly to Luna.

"Yes, doctor," she answers, nodding vigorously.

Hermione looks like someone has force-fed her a puckering potion. "I don't see…"

Mahalan raises one finger languidly. Hermione chokes off the rest of her protest as he bends over Neville.

"Let's see," he says softly, "where are you? There? There?"

"I think to the right, doctor," Luna interjects.

"To the right? Oh, yes, I see. Well down this way, up that way …. THERE YOU ARE, NEVILLE!" His voice fairly booms as he reaches the end of the sentence.

To my amazement, Neville abruptly ceases his constant muttering. The muscles in the boy's body tense, then relax.

"Yes, yes," Mahalan says softly, "I see. Yes, you need to do that. Oh you are so clever, Neville!"

I frown. He is showing none of the signs of using Legilimency, but seems to be speaking directly to the boy's mind. Neville's breathing is becoming increasingly regular, and I see his eyeballs moving beneath the lids. Suddenly he gives out a large sigh and seems to relax even more.

Mahalan places one hand over both of the boy's and, leaning very close, whispers something into his ear. Luna giggles softly behind one hand, while Hermione's pucker becomes more pronounced.

"Miss Lovegood," Mahalan exclaims, straightening, "will you stay here? I know I can trust you to pay attention!"

"Certainly, doctor," she says dreamily, settling back into the chair.

"Good!" Mahalan retrieves his sword and stuffs it back into his sweater. He nods sharply to the disgruntled Hermione, then whirls on his heel and breezes past me to the door. "He will wake up in a few hours and will probably be hungry. Coming Professor?"

**I don't like this man at all.**

_I'm not surprised, Tom. I'm not surprised._

"Brilliant girl!" Mahalan exclaims when I catch him halfway down the hall.

"Yes, Hermione is one of our best students."

"Hmmm? Oh, yes." He stops in front of the lift. "I don't mean _her_. Quite pedestrian. No, I meant Miss Lovegood. She pays attention."

"Does she?" I keep all traces of annoyance out of my voice.

"Yes. Now…" he stops. "Why are you annoyed, professor?"

**I really, really don't like this man.**

"Please be quiet, Mr. Riddle," Mahalan says.

I let out a long breath. "THAT is why I'm … piqued, Doctor."

He smiles. "I assure you it isn't Legilimency."

"I know that. But before…"

"I use it on Mr. Potter," he says, continuing my sentence, "you want to know what it is."

I just look at him.

"Your thoughts are of no importance to me, Professor," he says calmly.

**OUCH! Maybe I was wrong about this one, Albus**.

"You were, Mr. Riddle," Mahalan says. "Are you sure you want this explanation, Professor? Many people find it … difficult."

"I assure you, I am well versed in magical theory," I say, more coldly than I had intended.

"Well, yes, but I'm not sure that will help you." He frowns for a moment. "Your thoughts create your world, Professor."

"Yes," I say, "I believe many philosophies hold that."

"Indeed. Well, you see, _your_ world overlaps _my _world."

"Yes," I say slowly.

"Well, that's it!" He brightens and presses a button to summon a lift.

"What's it?" I say.

"That's the entirety of the devotions!"

The lift opens while I stare at him. He bounces in happily. "Consider it a puzzle, Professor. Think on it while I examine Mr. Potter."

"But…"

"Please professor," he says. "Try to concentrate. You are rather loud, you know."

"I will keep my voice down."

He looks surprised. "Your voice, Professor, has nothing to do with it. Your silence screams."

Profoundly troubled, I let my silence scream at him as the lift takes us to Harry's floor.


End file.
